


There's No Place Like Somewhere Else

by songsinsilence



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age gap (Harry 22 - Louis 33), Alcohol, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Autumn, Car rides, Emptiness/feeling lost, Fear, Hand Jobs, It's so random this story I don't even know, Jealous Harry, Loneliness, M/M, Oceans, Rain, Reflexology, Rooftops, Stargazing, Tiny bit of Angst, first story ever published don't kill me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:05:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsinsilence/pseuds/songsinsilence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a reflexologist living in the London suburbs. Harry is a 22-year old tattooed barkeeper with an extremely tense back. </p><p>//</p><p>And hi, guys! I'm also now publishing with username itsnotasecret - have a look! :) x</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Place Like Somewhere Else

 

* * *

 

‘Louis. Lovely to meet you. Have a seat, please.’

Harry lays his limp bones on the treatment bench. It's a vague ache already then, blazing from the back of his neck down to his tailbone.

‘So,’ Louis dries his hands with a pink cloth after having given them a thorough wash (as he does after each treatment), ‘what seems to be the matter? I was told it’s urgent.’

His smile parallels an innocent, slightly unconcerned elf. There's a hint of crookedness in the sharp canines beneath those thin, crisp lips.

 _Autumn leaf lips_.

‘I always tell the Doc’s it’s urgent. If not I have to wait for months,’ the boy with the dark brown wave of a hairstyle grins.

His feet are gigantic. Black strands of hair grow from light to rugged the further up his brawn legs they go.

‘I see,’ the reflexologist keeps his somewhat firm expression, a  _professional expression_ , and circles Harry’s body. ‘And where does the stress manifest?’

‘Mostly my neck, but sometimes the whole of my back.’

Maybe it's because of the position he’s standing in - by Harry's left arm making visual measurements for what can be done and where - that his face seems to dissolve from a wide grin to utter apathy. There's something about the stillness in the room making Harry feel put on display. Like the walls can talk yet have chosen to stay forever silent. It's the scent of antibacterial soaps and the yellow-hued walls, the reflexologist’s comfortable-therefor-ugly shoes, the hovering of a sterile laundry detergent used for washing his anonymous, lifeless work attire.

‘Let’s see if we could loosen you up a bit. It might hurt as we’re going to find the spots in your body that has gone stiff and rigid from poor blood flow, so let me know when it gets too much.’

Harry’s eyes slide over to the empty vessel of a human body plastered on the wall to the right of him; a translucent drawing of a skeleton with nerves surrounding its entrails divided in colours of red and blue.

‘That’s fine.’

Louis gives his toes and shoulders a light massage before producing a cold, sharp object to touch upon extremely sore points below his feet. They wince up automatically and Louis is ever patient, guiding Harry’s frolic to calm composition over and over, the elf-like smile going warm. For all Harry knows, the pain of his clients could be Louis’ motivational carrot for getting a job like this in the first place.

It gets sweaty in a heartbeat. Harry motions from side to side like a child in torment as he moans and cries amongst fits of laughter, eyes popping wide in mere disbelief of how painful it is to loosen up his body’s knots. It reaches a climax were he can’t, honestly can’t, differ whether Louis is tickling him into insanity or cutting up barely healed wounds, scrubbing them in with salt. (Or just doing his job.)

In the midst of a chaos his mind can’t order soars Louis’ uninflected smile. Letting go of Harry’s left thigh - from where the pain was the worst so far - he moves on to the shoulders and forehead, massaging gently again. ‘You’re very tense.’

Despite, or because of, the lawful violence occurring, Louis’ voice comes off light like he just basked in a lavender field on a not too hot, not too cold summer’s day. Harry stretches out fully, enveloping in how a massage on his temples is a relief to everything else, and glances up to Louis’ face as you’d squint upon the sun. He sees scruff and fire-like tones of skin. The smell of... a new sort of fabric? But Louis hasn’t changed his clothes.

‘Alright,’ he pats Harry's shoulders twice and drifts away to plop down on the chair, folding his hands between outstretched legs. ‘You did good.’

Harry heaves his upper body to lean on a wobbly pair of elbows, only to observe Louis act as if he doesn't re-enact mediaeval torture chamber scenes for a living the slightest. ‘That… really hurt.’

Louis laughs, and as he does, his eyes close in amusement and his cheeks flush red. Why, Harry doesn’t know.

‘Like I said. You’re pretty tense. How long have you had back pains for?’

‘About two years I think. I’ve tried lots of stuff but nothing has really helped.’

‘Back pain is just the last reaction from a serious of symptoms your body usually gives off. Our entire nervous system stems from the back, so if you’re worried a lot about some issue, it’s like it tightens the whole system. And the more it does that, the more habitual and wearing it gets.’

Harry shoves his monstrous hands through his hair.

‘So… Do you want to talk about it?’

‘About what?’

‘Well, I’m here for you as a guidance and a way of treatment. If you feel like discussing anything with me, you’re fully entitled too. It may even help our treatments so we can quicken them and you won’t have to come in every other week.’

‘Well, I… Uhm… There’s just stuff going on at home,’ he sits on the tip of the bench, knees clasping together atop the welded steel construction beneath. ‘My Mum’s a bit, uhm… She does drugs sometimes. And I have three younger sisters so I take care of them. But it’s difficult because I have no idea how to help them with stuff. I don’t know how to help them get into schools or get jobs. I’m just not sure about things, I think.’

Louis fills with an urge to advise him. It's maybe his favourite thing.

‘You can get help with that, you know. Depending on their age, they could move in with other families? Or get help somehow. Have you tried contacting care centres for those kind of issues?’

‘I don’t want to lose them. I don’t want them to live with strangers.’

Louis stares at him, which he doesn’t normally do with his clients; it would get quite awkward. But Harry isn’t neutral or with a face full of nonsense and complaints about the weather. He's full of life and full of struggles, eyes scattering across the room, resettling over and over on the translucent body on the wall.

‘I understand that.’

Naturally, Louis understands. He has grown up in six different families from the age of six, one more careless and uncharacteristic than the next. But if you see many enough kitchens, they stop to change their appearance. The only decipherable objects that keeps reoccurring will always be the same; a sink, cutlery; knives and forks and spoons and variations of the aforementioned, mugs, trays, tables, chairs, windows, refrigerators, occasionally freezers, dead plants by the window sill. And oddly enough this familiarity is what sucks the life out of everything, is what make everyone look the same and sound the same and feel the same. So that even when you find a hint of something original, a unique spark in someone’s way of being, which everyone also seems to carry – that too, becomes commonplace and soulless.

It can be found anywhere, after all.

‘I wish I was somewhere else.’ The man slash boy looks at him.

‘And where would you be?’ Louis’ eyes fixate on him, it almost looks as if they're listening. He sits there, golden hair suddenly in a tangle but he hasn't slid his fingers through it once during their session.

‘Just out of this city, you know. To somewhere else. Imagine, like… It’s a lot of things we don’t know about that I’d like to know about.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, I don’t wanna say…’ he blushes.

Louis motions closer with his chair. ‘No, tell me?’

Harry can’t help but stare at his eyes. They are blue like the Northern Sea. Or the sky late in August. It's a great excuse to keep looking if he only speaks slowly enough, so with that he decides to halt down his sentences – make them last as long as possible. (And frankly, how hard can that be. Harry isn't oblivious; one too many friends has more or less fallen asleep during late-night chatter with him. 'Mmm... Such a soothing voice,' they say tiredly while he's mentioning personal issues. It's actually sad if you think about it. They nevertheless drift to sleep when he talks about stuff he finds genuinely interesting too. Like the Northern Sea. Or the sky in late August. But never has he seen someone literally carry parts of those colours in their eyes. Funny thing, the eyes.

Funny, funny thing.)

‘Well, for instance the universe. I’d like to know about the universe.’ 

 _No, wait_. That didn’t last for nearly as long as he wanted it to. He works on with the sentence at once, well, right after Louis rolls forward even closer, asking ‘What about the universe?’

‘Like the origin of it. Or the end of it. Everything in it.’

Why on earth can’t he think of anything more to say? Instead of going on into eternal explanations, his voice has crumbled. _C_ _rumbled._  It doesn’t help having a gravel voice in times like these, it highlights its imperfections is what it does, strips all the words naked on a pedestal for the world to see. For Louis to see.

‘Yeah,’ Louis nods solemnly.

‘It’s such a darkness, I think,’ Harry picks up pace, ‘all deep and dark… It only takes the stop of a heartbeat and we’re dead from this. I don’t mean this to get all philosophical, sorry. I just don’t get it. Simply.’ He purses his lips and examines every eyelash and eyebrow and shade of Louis’ face.

‘Your eyes are python green,’ Louis says suddenly, like picking imagery from thin air. Harry bursts laughing.

‘I was gonna say, yours are very blue.’

‘Some people say they’re blue like the ocean, or blue like the sky, or blue like their swimming trunks. It’s such a boring colour, really,’ Louis twists in his chair and hides his ankle behind the Achilles heel of his other foot, angling his face towards a mesmerizing dust bunny on the floor.

‘Are you calling my favourite colour boring?’

Louis chuckles a bit, or is it a giggle. ‘No, sorry. Just the blue version of my own eyes, sorry. Not your favourite colour, of course, Mr. Styles’.

‘It’s alright Mr. Thomson.’

‘What?’  

‘…Thomson?’ Harry repeats as eyebrows push into his temples, teeth bite the cushions of his lips.

‘It’s Tomlinson,’ Louis laughs and leans backwards in his chair like he is the CEO of Russia. Or something.

‘I was so sure it said Thomson on the note I got.’

Louis only grins. Harry feels small all of the sudden. Was he trying to flirt? Was that was it was? Has he tried and then failed to flirt with this sunbeam of a 33-year old man? Probably not. Louis is too professional. Harry too stupid. He opts for twiddling his thumbs.

‘So, Styles. Next session? When’s good for you?’

‘Uhm, anytime really.’ 

‘Next Thursday?’

‘Sure. Where do I pay, by the way?’

‘Oh, just out by the door where you came in,’ his lips spread across his cheeks in a polite smile, handing Harry a note with the new schedule on it.

‘Thanks.’

They shake hands and say their farewells.

 

*

 

For each session, Harry’s limbs and joints and knots lets go of their (unbelievably, Harry muses) tight hold on the stress he carries.

‘Blood flow circulation,’ Louis repeats like a tribal chant. Every time Harry comes for a session, Louis smells more and more of something other than yellow wall paint, neutral detergents and bacteria-murdering soaps.

What he smells like, Harry admits, and which he’s known all along, is freshly cleaned underwear. Soft-cottoned underwear.

Warm and casual and comfortable and maybe white, underwear.

Harry, like any other person you’d bump into really, enjoys the scent. It's even easier to enjoy at the end of each session when Louis comes really close to his face for the final massages. Sometimes he finishes on his cheekbones, sometimes his collarbones and the oddly excitable nerves ledging them; other times the shoulders, down the arm, stopping right above the elbow, and then to the temples, the earlobes, the rough skin behind his ears that's maybe supposed to be soft. Or just softer.

For the most of their sessions, he finishes by his hands, pressing fingerprints into Harry’s palms. It feels like sharp-edged pins on his squared bones, and wriggles the delicate layer of skin sheeting his hands. And when Louis leaves his skin entirely, it's like a rush of air flies to heal Harry, like his hands have grown a heart in them, bursting warmth up to the air as a greeting or a message; as a  _no, we're fine, we don't need healing but thank you for the concern_.

None of their conversations are as heavy as their first. They chat about tea, Harry’s newfound tabby; a stray with ember fur and green eyes (‘Like yours?’ ‘Mine were that of a reptile, if I recall correctly?’), best views of the night sky (Aoraki Sky Reserve in New Zealand and Cerro Armazones in the Chilean Andes, plus any spot of desert in rural Arizona) and favourite TV-shows (Big Bang Theory for Louis, New Girl for Harry).

Louis has had a girlfriend for four years but they split right before she moved to Canada in order to study meteorology. Louis says they had no chemistry, and that it was more of an age-thing, the self-imposed expectation to just end up with someone already.

Harry's biggest wish is to travel the seas. He's been on and off with his girlfriend for a year, who's an addict like his mother – and in the clean periods she is pent up with anger and horrid, wants Harry to fuck off, throws full and empty beer bottles at him. Harry’s sister two years his junior has gotten into the college she wanted, the 15-year old one is still struggling a bit in school but doing alright, and the 12-year old is wildly proud of her distorted family. ‘Mum came in to kiss me goodnight last night! Think she’s getting better, Harry!’ ‘Oh, June,’ Harry had sighed and placed a kiss on her forehead.

For it was Harry who had come in that night, after putting his own mum to bed at 3 AM and then urging to check in with his youngest sister to make sure she hadn’t heard any of the bickering and throw of swearwords.

OK, so sometimes Harry and Louis’ conversations get a bit heavy despite it all. But it's nice talking to Louis. He speaks with the same ease and knowledge about human relations as he does about Yorkshire tea. His favourite is though, as he admits after their seventh session and introduces like a Holy Grail peak, the Indian chai masala.

‘Did you know the Brits gave India tea, and not the other way around?’

Harry doesn’t care. So this is the perfect occasion to stare at Louis’ two blue.

‘In order to increase sales and production of tea, the Brits induced tea breaks each day as a break from whatever work people were doing, but the bland taste of our tea just didn’t cut it for Indian tongues, so they added cinnamon and vanilla and different herbs to spice it up. And it became very popular!’

‘Oh, did it.’

‘You seem genuinely interested.’

Harry realises he isn’t being sarcastic. And Harry also realises it might be because of his intent staring. 

 

*

 

It is Harry’s eleventh day in a row working at the pub.

It isn’t busy per see, but comfortably crowded, tones of Ray Charles and Brigitte Bardot hover the bar, the leather stools, the quirky trinkets and the occasional pinned up thong from some passing bands’ groupie. A thunderstorm is growing outside and Harry can’t wait for the rain, for September to be in full swing, for months and months of darkness to finally arrive. The doors rush open and a soaked (so the rain has already started) man waltzes in to the bar where Harry stands drying a few half pints with a red and white patterned cloth.

‘Heya! Sorry, I was just wondering if there’s a loo I cou… Harry?’

‘Louis?’

Harry freezes his movements.

 _How wet he is_.

‘Wow, I… I didn’t know you worked here?’

This is true; they never talk about what Harry does for a living. It's intentional. Harry has been too ashamed to say he works at a pub, especially after Louis’ praise of him being so wise for his age. And here he is, tapping pee-coloured liquid to sloppy, drunk and local men and women (aged 18+, Harry always checks).

‘What are you doing here? I didn’t know you lived in this neighbourhood?’

‘I don’t! I’ve just been to a… With a friend. Been visiting a friend!’

Now, why can’t Louis fess up and admit having been on a date. Does he take Harry for a child? Just because Louis is Harry’s reflexologist doesn’t mean he's completely vanished the idea of Louis having a sex life.

Like, obviously.

Obviously Louis has a sex drive and the same capability as getting hard as any other man, and… So yeah, obviously and whatever.

‘Oh,’ he peers down at the tablecloth and goes on scouring dry glasses. ‘Of course you can use the toilets, Lou. It’s downstairs to the right,’ he smiles. Tries to. This is awkward.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Louis' chest heaves up and down with heavy breaths, and in a flash he spurts off to reach his destination.

When he comes back, his hair's a tad more arranged and face less wet, only damp and red and with pores who exhale.

‘So how was the date?’ Harry grins slyly, simultaneously pouring a lager for Layla, the butcher’s wife.

It's in no way meant to be an insult, but it's odd to Harry how parts of her could very well remind him of an ox.

Louis holds his stare for a moment. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. Then his cheeks cave and he settles down on the stool closest to Harry.

‘Not too good. Will need a pint.’

Harry does as told. He clamps the pint to the bar and tucks the cloth inside the back pocket of his black jeans. Louis is glowing more than usual. The green and horrendous piece of an 80’s lamp shines next to him, its lights shimmer through the soft darkness of the pub. Blue and black liquids of the bar rack run a spotlight at his soaked neckline, right by the sconces and wall brackets of scorched candles.

‘Not my type.’

Even with the look of loss, Louis' full. Whole. Sparkling even.

‘How so?’ Harry leans to polish completely unused jiggers to give Louis the chance to talk in his own pace without feeling put on the spot. It's not because he doesn't know what at all to do with his body or posture or height.

‘Not sure, really.’

‘You’re so likeable, Lou,’ he comforts.

‘Aw, thanks, Haz. It’s more of a chemistry thing I reckon. I’m just not feeling it, you know.’

‘I get that.’

Boy, if he does. More than once, he hasn’t even been able to get it up for Lauren, his girlfriend, and he wonders whether something is wrong with him. Maybe he can ask Louis about that in their next session.

‘Do you like Ray Charles?’ he suggests, hair sweeping along his jaws, bouncing a little.

‘Do  _you_? Harry, I swear, you’re like a 60-year old trapped in some Greek Go… young body,’ he giggles and sighs.

Harry does the worst dance moves ever witnessed on his way over to the jukebox and puts on his Ray-favourite What I’d Say. The clientele duck their heads up intermittently, merry laughter jingling like bells. ‘Good one, ‘Arry,’ an old man with a beard the texture of a toilet brush says, rising his Old Fashioned in a cheer. 

‘How come you listen to this stuff?’

Louis looks so curious. Harry loves it.

 _His messy, wet hair, just look at how_ messy _it is_.

Louis can probably get anyone he wants.

‘I just like it. Can’t you hear it’s nice?’

‘Yeah, I hear it,’ he smiles back, pauses a little. ‘You’re so unlike others, you know?’

‘How?’ Harry's red from dancing. From the sudden burst of heatwave having come flowing into the pub.

Maybe it's an autumn heatwave. 

‘Surely you know how,’ his smile is clever. Maybe he knows something funny. Maybe Harry should follow suit. 

‘’s the charm?’ He waves a finger at Louis, then back on himself. ‘That’s what it is, right?’

‘Yeah, you’ve got charm,’ Louis confirms but it's a murmur below his breath Harry barely catches.

‘I should go, Harry. But it was nice to see you. And good pint.’

‘Oh, anytime, Louis. I’m glad your bladder was so full that destiny lurked you into my pub.’

So he’s never having tequilas at work again. Ever. Because  _who says that_.

Louis just smiles and nods goodbye before peering out, giving his body out to the heart of the downpour. It has gotten dark already -  _September_ , Harry thinks fondly – that you can only tell it's raining by the sparks in front of the pubs’ patio lights. He turns around to chat with the others, serves up more beer and whiskey and shots of Finnish and Swedish vodka, throwing glances over to the door every now and then.

Every now.

It's as if Louis is still standing here, his walk from the stool frozen in time, and Harry’s eyes waver to where he just sat, to where his elbows leaned and his flocks of hair dripped droplets. Like confirming it's been real, like his memories thrive on the knowledge that it is indeed forever real in time, forever impossible to take away or make not have happened.

So definitely no more drinking at work.

 

*

 

‘Your body’s getting better and better, Harry,’ he squeezes his inner thighs but the digits fade like all of his touches are just one big erasure in the end. ‘Seems like you’ve been doing the exercises I told you about.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry yawns in agony. ‘…Yeah, I… aaaah! I did.’

Louis is relentless, the kind of being who morphs into some mountain goat, stubborn and safe and reckless, and in the next moment turns into a flower seed, flowing with the wind, light in spirit and weight, nudging you to join him in ever free air.

Louis has a small figure. He probably doesn’t weigh much, not as a flower seed nor a person. So Harry should probably stop having these translucent drinks before his sessions with Louis also. 

'Harry, I wanna talk to you.’ He lets go of his hold.

 _Of everything_ , Harry fumbles.

He sits down by Harry who remains pliant on the bench.

‘You smell of alcohol?’

Harry takes a deep breath, not sure what he's been holding it for. ‘Sorry. Do I stink?’

‘No. But it’s noon on a Tuesday.’

‘It was just one. I wasn’t overthinking it… I just had a drink. One drink.’

‘Why?’

He heaves on his elbows. ‘Louis, I promise I don’t drink regularly. I’m not like my mum, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I know that’s what you’re thinking. I just… Whenever I get really, really nervous, I sometimes have a drink. But just to relax. It’s just to… I dunno. Calm myself down.’

‘What do you need to do that for? It’s only you and me?’

When Harry doesn’t reply, only bows his head slightly to the left, Louis strokes a hand on his shoulder.

‘Harry… Talk to me. Is what I’m doing too painful? You’re making real progress, you know. You say so yourself, that the pain in your back has near to vanished.’

‘I like the pain,’ he half-grins.

Louis snickers, his pinky flinching unnoticeably. ‘What is it then, Haz?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘That’s fine, we don’t have t…’

‘It’s like when you meet someone, you know?’  _Oh, he's going to babble, isn’t he?_  ‘And I get so weird every time because part of me never believes it. That that kind of stuff can be real.’

‘What stuff?’

‘That I can like someone.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend? Haven't you liked her for a long time?’

‘I know but she… I’ve known her since school, we’re just together. In the same town as always, the same group of friends as always, it’s just a habit. I’m not afraid of that being real. Like… I know it’s real because it’s so boring and dull and pointless. But then sometimes I like someone and then I’m always afraid something will wake me up and say it isn’t real.’

‘Why?’ Louis’ voice stills, it stops the seconds but startles everything else.

‘It’s too good.’

‘Have you talked to this person?’

‘Not about that, no.’

‘Maybe you could try and talk to her?’

All the stupid blood flow and knots and red and blue entangled nerves blister in him like boiling water. Maybe he'd be better off if they remained in twists and knots. ‘What’s the use?’

‘The use is that it might end well,’ he nudges his bicep.

‘No, it won’t. It will just fade and grow into nothing.’

Louis retracts a few inches, gets a better look at him.

‘It will just disappear and not bother to go on, sort of,’ he's embarrassingly aware of how pathetic he is, ‘like everything in this room is either a distraction or a conversation starter. You know? It just exists for some reason but the reason is nothing.’

‘But we’re not talking about the room,’ Louis’ lips quirk ghostly.

‘No, we’re not,’ Harry concurs.

‘I think you’re incredible, Harry. So strong for someone this young. Only 21... And so strong still.’

There's a pause.

‘Do you want to go on?’ he asks.

Harry nods.

Louis’ hands are less forceful but lead heavy all the same. He uses the end of his palm to crush Harry’s bones systematically, and when he comes to his chest, it's an intense contraction going on beneath his ribs.

‘Ah,’ Harry screeches.

There is so much pain with Louis, and the chest is the worse.

‘Hold on,’ he whispers, heaving nearly all of his petite weight, not so flower seed-y anymore, on his solar plexus.

‘Oh, god,’ Harry chuffs, gripping Louis' wrist to have something to hold.

‘Won’t be long,’ Louis assures, and suddenly a hole is left after his touches – possibly a crater with lava pouring in, or out, making it so hot Harry can’t control it.

Louis moves downwards to position himself by Harry’s thighs. He squeezes and bores his lithe fingers into the freshly swollen skin. ‘Ahhh…’ Harry winces to the side, almost poles off the bench with dank sweat.

‘You’re so good,’ Louis keeps assuring, keeps lulling Harry into staying and caving like a hopeless counterpoise.

Louis’ hands are up further up his inner thighs, closer to his groin than they’ve previously been during their sessions.

‘Aaaah!…’

Harry doesn’t know what he's saying exactly, can’t control the shocks of gasps that come out of him. Louis fastens his grip like a claw.  _Soul of a flower, claws like an eagle_ , Harry thinks, but no, that isn’t the saying he is looking for. He can’t remem…

‘Fuck!’ His breathing is wild (and free?), the veins in his body short-circuiting. ‘Ahhhh!’

 _Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop_.

The air is still again.

He rearranges his eyesight, his head, only to find Louis sitting by his desk. While looking at him, framed right in the middle of his life’s most embarrassing shot, he sees his own erection.

‘Sor…Sorry, Louis,’ he shivers.

‘No, Harry, I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sorry.’ He peers at the paper in front of him. ‘I think we should end the sessions? You’re so well off now. I… I don’t think you need any more treatment.’

He has no idea what to say. He takes the end note of the paper documenting his sessions and stands awkwardly in the room. Louis' eyes bore holes at his desk.

‘Louis, really. I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t be, Harry,’ he looks up but neither of them seem to have any more words to say.

Harry's body moves towards the door because this is the next natural step; to leave, and with a twist of a doorknob, he is out of Louis’ care.

 

*

 

Harry and Lauren are on another break. It means for Harry that life goes on as usual, and for Lauren that she can shag anyone she wishes. She normally does, Harry knows – maybe that’s why his junior can’t deal even rising for her – but this time she needn’t feel guilty about it.

What a mess.

What a failed attempt at a worthy life his years has been so far. A  _pub_. He works at a pub for god’s sake, and that would’ve been fine had he only had bigger dreams he knew he’d pursue later. But he doesn’t know what dreams he has, he is all the more certain that whatever they are, they’ll never come true. It's not like he's depressed, really. He's just being honest with himself twinned with a clear grasp on reality.

His life takes a turn for the worst thing possible the next Saturday. The first person he sees entering the door is Louis. He's pretty certain it's a mirage of a former time, that he’s rehearsed the scene of Louis’ last visit so intently that now it's manifesting in front of his very eyes. Law of attraction, and all. But right behind Louis walks a taller man, with short black hair and lawyer-ish presence. He's fucking ugly and looks like a model.

‘Hi, Harry,’ Louis says softly.

He smiles a lot across the bar, tries to maybe reconcile something that neither of them know what has been – by bringing a date to the very pub Harry works at.

Because it is a date. Harry wasn't sure at first because he only knew of Louis’ last girlfriend, but judging by the sickening stares coming from the really ugly man over to Louis, they're most definitely in love.  _Love thy neighbour,_ what bullshit. Harry will never wish anything well upon either, ever. Rather, he wants the black-haired one to vanish off the surface of the earth because it's getting too inconvenient for him to exist during Harry and Louis' lifetime. Bad combo, is all. 

‘Harry, this is Carl,’ Louis introduces.

‘Hi, Carl.’

 _And isn’t that the ugliest name in history_.

‘When I see your face, it actually reminds me of a Carl,’ Harry pulls a smile and fails. 

‘Why, thank you, Harry. I take it it’s a good thing? Ha-ha.’

 _Oh, god_.

Louis coughs. ‘So, Harry. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.’

His stare switches over to Louis, forcing a blank expression while thinking of the time he hurt his bones, clung his fingers to his flesh, moulded it red. Harry isn’t healthy yet. His bones need professional help. They are stiff and rigid. He must be so, so sick.

‘All’s good,’ he wipes the bar, the intricate details of the Jack Daniel’s bottles, and then the porcelain chicken hens given by the town’s Sewing Sisters in ode to the pubs’ 80th birthday. He's very well pre-occupied and unfortunately not able to keep conversations at this hour.

‘Nice shirt,’ Louis comments as he works on the second hen, aiming his Corona at Harry’s slightly unbuttoned flannel.

He's genuine all though Harry always dismisses him as being sarcastic at first.

‘Can even see your birdies!’ Ugly Carl chirps in.

‘Always wondered why you got those,’ Louis goes on. ‘It suits you.’

There's a blaze spreading beneath Harry’s cheeks. Not so much from the compliment itself but from the fact Louis notices his chest. 

‘No reason.’ 

He gestures for the bar-owner, Linda, whether she can cover for him. He's only got two hours left of his shift anyway.

‘What’s the matter, H?’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he mutters.

‘Just tired.’

‘Loading up for the big party, hey? Not every Saturday one turns 22, is it,’ she gives him a hug just because. ‘Of course you can go, darling,’ she smooches his ear, smelling like honey and cigarettes.

Linda is nice.

Back home he finds his mother passed out or deep in sleep or whatever the fuck on the couch, his two youngest sisters in bed and the eldest at a party he barely allowed her to go to. The kitchen needs tidying and there are McDonalds’ left overs and rubbish all over the living room floor. The TV is on, BBC.

How tired he is. How trapped in this filthy apartment.

There are two bangs on the door, which is rarely any positive omen; twice had two boys been looking for Jane – aggressive looking were they, and another time it was the government, wanting to check in after worried concerns from the neighbours. Why can’t people just leave them alone; how difficult would that be?

He peers through the letter opening. It is golden brown, something small, something fair. He opens, though slowly.

‘Louis?’

‘I… Uhm, Linda told me where you lived. I just… You forgot your wallet at the pub and I told her I’d might as well stop by you on the way back.’

Harry's instantly aware of the dusty stairs behind him with its 40-year old fabric and the equal amount of time non-vacuuming it. They’ve never own a hoover, that’s all. And picking up each strand of hair, human or cat’s or dog’s, takes forever.

He casually blocks the entrance. ‘Thanks.’

‘And I… Again, I’m sorry, Harry.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I don’t want you to think I was repulsed or anything.’

‘’s alright, Lou. I’m not your type anyway, that’s settled.’ He rolls his eyes but tries hard not to. He could just cringe from how childish he is and how little he manages to control it in front of Louis.

‘How do you know?’

It's an honest question, like he actually wants to know.

‘You like Ken’s.’

‘ _Ken’s_?’ Louis chuckles and it wakes up the shrubs. ‘You picked up our electrified chemistry, did you?’

‘It was a date,’ Harry states, glances down at the door panel. Fallen sheets of white paint. Should be fixed.

‘Yeah, it was. It was the same guy as before, on the date that went bad. We just kept going for some reason. I suggested we went to your pub. Did you mind?’

Again, he seems to actually want to know.

‘I can’t control who comes into the pub or not.’

There is the stillness again. It comes from the wavering branches of skinny, dead trees, from the ambulance far away, the party a block down.

‘Harry…’

‘What.’

‘Can’t you even look at me?’

He checks out the panel again, up and down before braving a gaze at Louis.

‘What do you want?’ All though the tone is hostile, the body language's terrified, hunching in on itself and shielding up an armour of tattoos and open flannel, unkempt hair and teetered eyebrows.

‘I want to be friends with you,’ Louis twiddles his fingers, not sure where to look anymore either.

‘Friends?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’re eleven years apart.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like, what do we have in common...’ Harry shuffles gravel back and forth with his feet.

Louis laughs at that, a camaraderie-like, laddy lad laugh, bumping his fist into Harry’s arm.

‘Harry? We’ve got most stuff in common.’

‘I’m young,’ he shakes his head, ‘And I don’t… How would I know how to act, sort of…’

‘For starters, you don’t have to dance at all. What so ever. Ever,’ he clarifies, reminiscing Harry’s trip over to the Jukebox. And then an actual trip across the looming piece of wood stark on the floor.

Harry smiles at the doorknob.

‘But promise to forget what happened, OK? That last time…’

‘Of course, Harry. And I’m sorry too. I should’ve known it was a sweet spot.’

Harry's face morphs as he tries to talk - the gap of his grin widens into a well. _Well, he bloody well should!_ What if Louis was the slyest flirt in the world?

‘Oh, my god, did you know?’ The thoughts unfold like a display of lightning bolts, because… How could Louis  _not_  know? It's his profession after all? With exams and things?... Has Harry been the victim of a sexy machination?

‘Don’t accuse me! I’m trying to be friends here!’ He leans on each his hipbone intermittently.

The grown man is tilting.

Is that flirting? How is Harry supposed to know if he is? More yet, how to react?

‘Fine, fine… I’ll never bring it up again. Yes, let’s be friends.’ His smile is still soft, like he's the only one vaguely aware of what's going on for miles around.

‘Good.’  

‘Well, then I better be off. Nice seeing you again, Harry. You’re not uncomfortable, are you? Like… Do you reckon this will work?’

Harry wants to be sort of in control too.

‘Not sure. We should check.’

‘Oh?’

‘Let’s… Uh… Go for a ride to somewhere, see the stars that you talk so much about.’

‘That _I_  talk so much about?’

Harry ignores him. ‘The day after tomorrow maybe. I’m sometimes allowed to borrow the neighbour’s car. It’s nothing great but it has wheels and it moves forward.’ Yes. Harry is totally in control. ‘We’ll get driving at 10:30, should be dark enough once we get out to the hillside.’

‘No can do,’ Louis says with the ease of picking a stray strand of hair from his shoulders. (And he does.) ‘My work starts at 7 AM, you know. Or, well, maybe you don’t know. Anytime I’ve suggested those hours for a session you’ve clutched the bench a bit too tightly, ‘oh… I’m, uh, busy at that time of day.’’ He giggles, Harry does not.

‘Well, I’ve been busy!’

‘Didn’t you one time say; ‘are you serious, man?’ when I suggested 7:45?  _Man_? What are you, a hippie?’ He near to screech.

‘First of all, we need some ground rules in this friendship,’ Harry aims his right index at Louis’ chest, ‘we back each other up, and second of all, yes, I snooze. I love to snooze. Got my head tucked into that pillow for as long as I can. I don’t get to bed until 4 or 5 AM on my swing shifts, you know!’

Louis’ laugh is so vivid, it flies straight from his tongue onto Harry's face.

‘Alright, alright. Truce… What about we go now?’

Harry doesn’t follow.

No, it's too soon? He has to check on the girls? And while picking up his phone to call his neighbour about the car, will Louis just stand down there in the dirty hallway? 

‘’M tired. A bit.’

‘You look bright eyed to me. Come on, Harry. I don’t have your youth. I can’t stay up late on weekdays anymore,’ he pokes his side again.

_Poke, poke, poke._

Harry giggles a bit. Wiggles and giggles.

‘Alright, stay there and I’ll call my friend?’

‘Sure.’

He bounces up the staircase like a wild horse in its prime (Louis thinks) and mere seconds later he's clutching the door frame, breath heavy, saying it's OK, they can borrow the car but he just has to sneak inside the neighbour’s shed first - where the extra set of car keys hang. And Louis followed, watched him climb into a stack of firewood and bend his limp torso over three unevenly piled barrows. He had nearly lost his balance. Given a deep rusted shout of ‘woah.’

 

*

 

The car ride took forever.

At first they hadn't known what to say, and then the radio went on and on about a sex ed-talk; how to deal with situations when your penis pops north in inappropriate situations. And while Harry casually tried to change the channel, the only song streaming into their reception was ‘Hit Me Baby, One More Time’. How come he didn’t experience such strange rows of coincidences when buying lottery tickets?

Louis ignores the whole scene. He stares at the cows and sheep disappearing in and out of their view, or at the rear-view mirror, or at Harry’s profile and his coal grey t-shirt, or at the road ahead, the streetlights bridging further apart the deeper into the woods and hills they come.

‘It’s getting starry,’ Harry peeks up through his side window.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Louis nods.

They already see Venus and the moon crack out amongst a myriad of Milky Way-wonders.

‘It’s so strange, I think,’ Harry parks the car by a hillside they get walking up, ‘how we’re able to see this. We’ve a pretty good view of things here from Earth.’

‘We do.’

‘We’d might even be able to see shooting stars from here,’ Harry beams once they reach the top.

He leans his head all the way back, Adam’s apple bobbing gently up and down like breeze rustles curtains. Or as Louis may be thinking, _like a s_ _exy elevator_.

‘Look,’ Harry’s spider fingers stretch eagerly in each their direction, all aiming at the sky. ‘’s Taurus.’

Gazing at Harry’s rough skin, pink hangnails and four different rings; Louis realises he isn’t obsessed with the universe. He's no longer sure he even takes interest in the stars, and there Harry awes; affected by them. Shine pools his green eyes and maybe if they were on a taller peak, the stars would be close enough to echo on his skin.

Harry turns to him with an odd gleam of loss, or maybe he is just being sincere - showing his sincerity.

None of them remember if the other one has said something that should elicit a reply. The clouds break a short while after and they turn to head back.

‘I didn’t interfere with any plans of yours tonight, right?’ Louis quizzes, ‘Like with Lauren or something?’

‘Louis… You know it’s nothing serious with me and Lauren? We haven’t even had sex for four months. And before that it was three.’

‘What?’ Louis' appalled. ‘Don’t you have urges, Harry?’

‘Not for her,’ Harry chuckles as Louis splays a hand between his shoulder blades.

‘You’re attractive and funny and dance like a penguin. I’m sure you’d find someone new? Why are you hanging on to her?’

‘I dunno.’

A wave of shame dawns over him. Maybe he doesn’t really think he's good enough for anyone else? He’s known Lauren for ages. She doesn’t necessarily understand him or vice versa, but at least they're accustomed to each other, used to each other.

‘What if I can’t, though?’

‘Can’t what, love?’

‘Find someone else?’

‘You’re 21! God, what does this say about me? If you’re doomed, surely I am too!’

‘No, you’re not doomed,' he shakes his head slowly, 'you’ve got Ken.’

‘I’m not in love with Ken, you’ve got it mixed up. Carl, I mean. His name is Carl, Harry!’

They laugh in unison.

‘Why are you with him then?’

‘Habit?’ He winks at Harry.

‘We should break our habits,’ Harry suggests. ‘Not physically! But, like, we should break up with them.’

‘Well, I already did,’ Louis says pleased. ‘Broke it off as soon as we left the pub. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Oh, but that’s easy for you! You’ve known Ken for two dates. I’ve known Lauren for eight years.’

‘So?’

‘You idiot,’ Harry pushes him but a bit more harshly than intended; Louis nearly wobbles off the street!

‘Sorry!’ Harry pulls him back.

‘You’re too strong for your own good,’ Louis laughs, brushing make-belief muck off his shoulders.

‘Hm…’

‘What?’

‘You smell nice.'

‘I smell nice?’

‘You know, laying on the bench is all very treatment slash clinical-like. But you always smelled nice. Like newly cleaned underwear.’

‘Harry!?’

‘Oh, come on, it’s true. Your groin was quite close to me. You smell nice now too. Is it a cologne?’

‘I fucking shower?’

Harry's got a dubious look on his face as he ruffles through Louis’ flocks of hair. ‘Are you sure?’

Then it's Louis who pushes him off the road.

‘I can’t believe you,’ he gushes with affection in his eyes, in his features.

With fond.

Happiness?

‘I’m just into honesty, that’s all,’ Harry shrugs, ‘unlike you.’

‘Unlike me?’

‘Yep!’ Harry kicks a pebble to the side. It bounces impressively far.

‘And when have I been dishonest?’

‘’ _Your body’s fiiine. No more need for sessions for the rest of eternity_ ,’’ Harry mimics in a floppy tone.

Louis barks a laugh. ‘You _are_ fine! Was simply nothing left to do with that body of yours!’

Though it was something.

Maybe Louis knows. Harry definitely knows because he's become shy again, kicking pebble after pebble, shovelling chunks of gravel and grass and a one-penny until the trail left behind resembles a war field. The drizzle from above increases in size and numbers, and they spurt the last slot over to the car.

‘First time I wished it wouldn’t rain,’ Harry clutches his biceps and ducks his head as if it will protect him.

‘Me neither,’ Louis agrees as he shuts the door and clasps his shivering hands together frantically, squeezing them between his thighs.

 

*

 

Harry puts on a kettle of water as soon as they're back at his place. 

The rain makes it impossible to hear whether the water is boiling, though they just put it on. It can’t possibly be boiling just yet.

‘This is badass of us,’ Louis twinkles, his scratchy voice disarranging particles from the water steam. They stand close by the window above the stove. ‘Looking at stars and having tea after midnight.’

‘You and I are like more than just two people, you know. We’re like a very small gang.’

He laughs. 'Right. Right you are...'

Their faces gravitate slightly to a night sky they can’t find in the downpour.

'Why do you like the sky so much?' Louis asks. 

His body is filtered in deep navy and black from where he faces the window. The blue lines slit his eyes.

'It's quite big... Endless. Like the sea. You know, I really like the sea.'

'I can sort of tell by all your anchor t-shirts.'

'Oh, I only have one.'

'Well, I guess that explains the smell.'

'Oi!' He jabs his bicep, 'R-E-S-P-E-C-T please,' he half-sings and snaps his fingers.

'My apologies, Aretha, my apologies.'

'Oh, it's OK,' Harry winks.

'You're gonna head for the sea some time then?'

'That's the dream. I don't see why every dream has to be based on some profession on-land. So limited.' 

'It  _is_ limiting,' Louis lowers his head a bit.

Now his brown hair is sapphire.

'But you're not lonely here, are you?' He peaks up again, at a forever-staring Harry.

'No.'

Their eyes lock.

Harry yanks himself up against the kitchen bench as if planning to place his bum on it, but he just hovers. He says it almost solemnly.

‘You know I’m gay, right?’

Louis eyes him, then quickly glances down at the square patterned floor.

‘I figured,’ he says in response.

Harry wants him to look back. His body's too close for him to be looking elsewhere. What’s he looking for?

Harry’s face turns to the side, unsure of everything.

 

*

 

Louis calls at 11:23 PM two nights later. 

He only wonders if Harry knows what film is playing on the only channel Louis unfortunately had cancelled due to something about payment or signals. 

Harry's out by the bridge above the train station, smoking Prince and searching for the Big Dipper.

''m not near a TV, Lou, sorry,' he takes a drag.

'Oh, that's alright,' the other end buzzes, 'just curious!' 

'Yeah. Why?'

'I thought it was my favourite movie, so just wanted to check.'

'Which is?'

'What?'

'What's your favourite movie?'

'Uhm... The... The a... The B... Hangover.'

'Really? Your favorite? Of all time?'

'Yeah, yeah, absolutely!'

Harry huffs.

'Like yours are any better,' Louis responds.

'You don't even know mine!'

'Mate. Titanic.' 

Harry chokes on tobacco smoke, 'How d'you... How do you  _know_ _?'_  

'Ringtone,' he hums My Heart Will Go On.

Harry silently clasps a palm to his forehead, 'Did you hear?'

'Last session. When your... A friend, I guess, called.'

_Gosh, it's hot out tonight, isn't it?_

'Oh, yeah, it was just my sister.'

'OK,' Louis' voice drops many notches. 

He sounds like he's smiling.

'Well, anyway,' he says, 'I'll let you go. See you later, Harry.'

'See you, Louis.'

 

 *

 

Next session is flawless like the skin on Louis' neck, Harry concludes.

The only thing even remotely annoying is when Louis works on his legs and Harry picks up a soft crooning '...We'll stay... Foreeeever this way, you are sa...' 

'I can hear you, you know,' Harry stares fixated at the ceiling in a personal promise not to laugh.

'Oh, I wasn't aware, sorry,' Louis chirps, massages ever so tighter. 

But Harry won't wince this time. Not once. 

'You're awfully controlled today,' Louis mentions.

'Am I? I wasn't aware.'

'Are you being sarcastic?'

'No, Mr. Thomson.' 

 _Yikes!_ It really hurts when Louis finds what he terms 'sweet spots' on the inside of Harry's legs; veins directly connected to the ache in his back - though the ache has gotten much better - it's almost gone. Or maybe it really is.

'What did you say?' He asks happily, face about to burst with laughter except he controls himself perfectly. 

'Nothing?'

Louis keeps dotting and massaging and rubbing. 

'Tomliwon...' Harry says but very lowly.

' _Tomliwon,_ seriously?!' Louis screeches. 

That's how Harry knows he's won. He rattles of laughter, folds his hands atop his chest and shuts his eyes in ebullience. 

'You better know my name by now...' Louis glistens, rises up to knead the outer sides of his thighs - which he knew Harry couldn't stand one second.

'I do, I do!'

'And what is it?' He zigs the skin with his thumbs.

'...Tamlethon.'

Louis laughs genuinely but is unfortunately forced to cause Harry serious pain - it's time for the knuckles to roll in. 

'No!' Harry howls and laughs, 'Tomlinson! _Tomlinson_!'

He can feel the skin on his thighs expand back into place.

'Good boy.'

Harry bites his teeth together in a grin, afraid his smile may tear his face if he doesn't connect it somehow. 

'Kind man.'

'Still gotta loosen your knots, Harry. You'll probably regret calling me kind.'

'What should I call you then?'

''Kind Man Outside The Workplace But Otherwise Professional'.'

'That sounds boring.'

He sees glimpses of a quite flushed Louis, rotating around his feet and ankles, avoiding eye contact. 

Harry relaxes back and stares at the ceiling once more, teeth grinding audibly.

 

* 

 

His sisters attend Harry’s 22nd birthday party, alongside his 18 or so friends, but his mum is out of town (nobody knows exactly where but somewhere in central London).

Louis bumps into several groups of drunken folks on his way to the other side of the living room where Harry is. He exudes warmth and sugary drinks as he traps him in a tight hug.

‘Happy birthday, mate.’

Harry’s smiles wide, pouched dimples spanning all up to his hairline.

‘Thanks for coming, Lou.’

Louis is older than anyone there and he seems to pick up on that fact. He chastely paces his arms back and forth, peering around all wary.

‘Want to go on the roof?’ Harry suggests, making a beeline for them to step out of the window and into the night.

As they sit there, a few droplets fall on them, light as air.

‘I got you something,’ Louis hands over a small dark blue packet.

Harry opens and inside there’s a compass. It’s dark wood with golden ascriptions, and the silver arrow vibrates shakily as it aims north.

‘Louis…’ He nudges his nose to Louis’ neck, holds him in tight. ‘It’s the best gift.’

Louis blushes but Harry can’t see because it’s too dark. He senses Louis’ lips curve though, indeed wisp as real life autumn leafs. The scruff on his chin grows up to his cheeks, encloses around his lips, peppers his neck...

And Louis has never made a move on Harry.

And Harry has never made a move on Louis.

‘Louis,’ he keeps whispering with great fond in his eyes, huddled in all close. ‘Louis, wow…’

‘Oh, it’s just a compass,’ Louis laughs, totally smug for choosing the best present ever.

‘No, no, it’s not. You know how much I love the sea. It’s perfect.’

‘Once your youngest sister gets older, Harry, you have to let go of the responsibility of being their parent, you know. It won’t always be like this, it won’t always be this hard. And you’re so strong, you’ll make it through anything. I bet the waves are waiting to take you on, to measure up with a strength equal to them.’

Harry barely understands what Louis is saying, his eyes welling salt as he tries to see Louis through them.

‘You’re so good to me,’ he settles for. ‘Louis…’

‘Plus I’ve got some red wine for you inside. You’re getting older, you need to be groomed a bit. Look at this,’ he snares, ‘Heineken!’

Harry laughs. ‘I don’t want to drink wine after beer, Lou. Do you want to come over some time and we can drink it just you and I?’

‘Of course.’

Harry pours red wine unevenly into a plastic cup for Louis, and drinks in the view of the man next to him. He doesn't glow from the moonlight or the streetlights or the dim lamps from inside, his face isn't silver from sparks originating somewhere in the night sky.

The sky is watching  _us_ , Harry thinks.

The moon is orbiting  _us_ , the lamps reach for  _us_ , wine decompose in  _us_. And talking with Louis isn't ecstatic anymore, but settled and warm and scary.

It takes no effort, sitting there together and choosing to stay. As they look at each other - exchanging oddities about themselves - everything is the easiest, easiest thing. For a strange reason, Harry feels a genuine sadness for the ones not ever experiencing this in the course of their lives. Not sadness for those not experiencing soul mates, twin flames, best friends, fun friends, genuine friends, solidity, safety, happiness - but for those not experiencing Louis. For those not swarmed together like never-parting birds on a rooftop in an ugly London suburb. For those who think they have to search elsewhere, save up and travel to pretty places, to date many people, to try, to beg, to be content where they are.

All of those places are wrong, none of those places have Louis.

Then he feels a bit bad because Harry's never liked feeling sorry for other people. Not in this certified way.

 

*

 

Louis makes good company at the pub on the next Sunday night.

Harry's wandering around the back and by the fireplace swooshing about with a water barrow, microphoning a cleaning stick. Louis picks out all the songs he prefers from the Jukebox at the cost of observing Harry dance to it.

‘You know what they say about bad dancers?’ Louis billows across the Beach Boys on I’m Waiting For The Day.

‘I’m not lousy in bed, I promise. Give me credit for at least dancing, huh? Let’s see you dance!’

Harry tip-taps over to him, grabs his hands and spins him around. ‘See? I’ve got real motion!’

Louis laughs into his neck. ‘Yeah, you’re a real swain. Suppose you’re good then?’

‘At dancing?’ Harry's spins him around once more.

‘At fucking.’

Harry startles a bit - just a bit.

‘Sure I am!’ He tosses and turns and almost falls, ‘And you?’

‘Well, as you can tell, I’m not much of a dancer,’ Louis glints.

‘Maybe you like it slow. Maybe that’s where your talents are.’

‘Like slow waltz?’

‘Slow fucks,’ Harry buzzes on his ear.

Louis halts. He’s still smiling, though.

‘Aren’t you closing?’ He jabs at his arm.

‘Just having fun first,’ Harry responds, always surprised at how Louis switches the atmosphere with the bat of an eyelid.

‘Do you want me to walk you home?’

‘Do you want to?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

 _Strange. He doesn’t want me yet he wants to take me home_ , Harry ponders.

 

*

 

The rain pours down the window glasses and rooftop bricks. It seems to fill everything and transfer your mind to another place. Everyone they know complain about the puddles soaking their unequipped-for-rain footwear but here Harry is with Louis; it's the perfect place for the rain to pour, for the rain to make the sounds that it does.

They’re halfway in an Australian wine.

Harry’s gotten into the whole red wine-thing. He can see why adults like it so much. He likes it very much when he’s with Louis plus it matches the red in his blood, probably creating quite a fizz around the nooks of his heart. How can his body know if it’s blood or wine? Can it tell that wine is happier than his blood? More right?

Louis has somehow ended up directly in front of him, explaining something about a game Harry knows he’s wrong in. But Harry has to listen and it’s OK. He straightens a bit in the gobble of pillows they’ve constructed on the tin roof below a mildewed set of awnings.

 _Woah_! Louis snaps his fingers right in front of Harry’s nose.

‘Are you even listening?’

‘Yes?’ Harry quirks an eyebrow as to say of course but falls into a giggle fit.

Louis sighs, ‘You’re impossible.’

_The rain, the rain, the rain._

The beautiful drill of the quick and scattering rain.

It’s making it all go quiet. It’s making their bodies still.

He drags at the hem of Louis’ shirt. It's white and thin and Louis is probably cold.

‘Am I too young?’ Harry’s voice turns sombre - it buckles.

‘No,’ Louis shakes his head two languid times.

He calculates so many things in his mind while stroking Harry’s right thigh.

‘What is it then,’ he stares a hole at Louis’ hand.

‘Well… You  _are_  young.’

He looks at Harry compassionately, as if explaining something both of them need to understand. And the way he doesn't react the slightest to Harry's honest question somehow makes him feel the future isn't so bright.

‘You think I’m too young to feel.’

‘No… No, Harry, I don’t think you are... What do you feel?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

The swirls of blood-coloured wine or wine-coloured blood fuse his heart and his cheeks.

Always shrinking scarlet.

‘Harry…’

It’s almost like Louis apologizes. Why?

‘Yes?’

‘I think I should go?’

‘You’re gonna go?’

There are times Harry can’t understand Louis. There are those times for sure. Though this is the first.

‘Yeah…’

It's like watching a movie. Harry is just watching and all though every urge in his body wants to change the script, it just keeps running.

‘See you,’ Harry says coldly.

Louis’ hand is still on his thigh.

‘Harry,’ he goes on again, ‘it would never work.’

Determined not to respond, Harry stays glued to the spot, his stare lost in the space between them – which because of Louis has grown to be of galaxy proportions. Relentless chunks of salty liquid march like troops in his eyes. They don't get that this is the end of the road, the end of the cliff, until suddenly they're too many and begin falling. Beaten.

‘Harry?’ Louis peers concerned.

‘Stop saying my fucking name.’

He stands up and walks back into the living room. Louis follows but only hears the slam of a door further in and Harry is out of his sight.

 

*

 

There's a notice for Harry in the mail.

Tossing the towel across his shoulders and shaking the moist off his hair, he reads how recommended it is that he meets up with Dr. Tomlinson as soon as possible in order to check on the ‘tension of the shoulder blades.’ Apparently, a check-up after two months is business as usual.

Harry huffs. Begins envisioning Louis’ face as he walks in the treatment room.

In fact, he's inspired by it. Motivated in a fiery and galvanizing way. He's for sure going to attend, and for sure make it uncomfortable and cringe-worthy for the stupid man of a reflexologist.

 

*

 

‘Harry,’ he swings in his seat.

‘Yup.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ Louis palms his hands between his knees, aware.

‘Check-up,’ he responds, as if nothing else needs to be explained.

‘Check-up,’ Louis concurs.

‘I don’t have neck pains anymore, though.’

‘It’ll only be a five minute check,’ Louis assures and walks over, gesturing for Harry to sit on the bench. ‘No need to lie down.’

‘Phew,’ Harry drags sarcastically, ‘bet you’re relieved.’

Louis doesn’t speak, only massages him in circuits on the skin behind his ears, then his neck and finally the shoulder blades.

‘Are you wondering of how strong of an antibacterial you’ll need after this?’ He continues.

Two forceful thumbs pin against two very painful spots right below the blades.

‘What’s wrong with you,’ Louis hisses from behind.

Harry looks sorrowfully over at the skeleton poster on the wall.

He doesn’t know what's wrong with him. He doesn’t even know what he's saying, or why there is a vacuous bubble in his stomach, rising to his throat and going after Louis’ fingers. Regurgitation is what he's got, is what his problem his.

‘You don’t think I want to touch you?’ He goes on, voice slightly less hostile.

‘You don’t.’

‘And what do you want?’ His voice is closer.

He's again massaging circuits on his tensions. Harry is out of breath and words.

‘A quick shag?’ Louis questions.

Harry doesn’t know where this is going. He honestly doesn’t.

‘How do you think this works, hm? For how long? On the tin roof, or in your room with the rain outside? There’s more to it, you know. It takes more.’

What? 

What takes more? And what does that more consist of?

‘I don’t know what you’re saying,’ his voice is shrill but he braves on, turning to face Louis. ‘What do you want? What’s more? What do you want?’ he repeats, completely at a loss.

‘Can’t do this,’ Louis takes a step back and looks… Sad?

‘What, Louis? What did I do?’

‘I’m shit,’ he responds, dragging his hand through a tuft of hair. ‘I’m so sorry Harry. I’m so unprofessional. I’ve just got a lot on my mind and I’m taking it out on you.’

Harry doesn’t understand one bit except the fact that Louis seems to smoulder up in front of him.

‘I’ve never been in love before,’ he almost whispers, as if admitting carrying a contagious disease and now he’s infected the whole room with it. Infected Harry with it.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Harry has no clue of what to say.

Then Louis laughs, ‘I guess it’s not a mourning thing.’

‘It can be a happy thing,’ Harry confirms, but he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Then, out of the blue and control, he says, ‘I don’t want to kiss you in this room.’

‘Me neither’, Louis replies.

 _Thank god he replied_.

‘It’s so sterile. Like it doesn’t have anything to do with you... You know?’

‘Do you like tea at all?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe, this weekend, we could go to a café.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry sniffs. Has he been crying?

‘I’ll come by yours then? Midday or something?’

Harry nods. Louis smells so nice, he thinks, and a shiver goes out of control.

‘Are you cold?’ Louis comes over to him again, puts each his hands on Harry’s shoulders, facing him.

‘I dunno.’

‘You look troubled.’

Harry heaves a breath and lets out a gasp of laughter. ‘Yeah…’

Then the laughter is gone. Louis is once more massaging him, stepping in between Harry’s now spread legs.

‘I like to touch you, you know…’

Harry closes his eyes and bends his head forwards. He can smell Louis’ chest, feel his thighs between his own. Within a second, his eyelids flutter open only to find Louis' hands are off him. He's in his chair, looking at him.

‘So... Saturday?’

Harry’s mind is non-existent, nodding up and down like a bobble head.

 

*

 

November comes pelting more than its foregoing months.

Harry’s cheeks are burgundy amidst the hot cocoa steam and Louis sees the green go greener, the dark all black. Could be the lack of sunlight. Harry’s peached lips motion to talk and their words are blue and still, transferring across the rose oak table.

They have window seats at Blueberry Café, and the venue is filtered with muffled grey from the spread outside.

‘How you’ve been?’

‘Good, thanks. And you?’

‘Good. Or actually, I’ve… I’ve handed in my resignation.’

Harry double-gulps a sip. ‘What?’

‘Well, you know I only did this because being a normal doctor was too traditional for me. Too boring, and well… There’s lots more to know about the body than what those med-books tell you. So I wanted to try out as a reflexologist but then, I… I’m just at a loss I think. I don’t know what to do. But I’m 33 and if I don’t do something now, then I’ll keep going down the path I’ve always gone in, you know?’

And  _oh, stunning_ , Louis thinks while bopping an eyebrow to Harry. Because Harry’s own eyebrows are all up in his forehead to the raven-like, chocolate hued hair. And you can see his eyes so clearly.  _They’re not green_ , Louis thinks. But he doesn’t know what else they can be so he'll continue terming them green.

‘That’s incredible, Lou. I think you’re doing the right thing. Really. That’s so good to hear.’

 _Oh, look_ , Harry studies as Louis’ face goes scarlet and his nose crinkles like Pinocchio's when he isn't lying. Or like Peter Pan in the close-up movie stills, before he flies away.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m actually doing something funny on my own.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m leaving on a ship!’

‘A ship!?’

‘Yup,’ Harry leans backwards, as if very proud.

‘Why, that’s amazing Harry. Wow… I’m actually speechless. When? How? Or? How long, I mean?’

‘It’s in two months. It’s a cargo going to Barbados and I’ll be helping around the deck. Fully paid for, so when I get home I can stay for a few months on leave, then return out at sea again.’

‘Oh, Harry… I’m proud of you. That’s amazing, what you’re doing.’

Harry huffs. Brushes off his compliments with a wave but they remain in the air around them. 

‘Here ya’ go!’ a blonde barista with a ponytail comes over and sets an off-white candle in the middle of their table. She gives them each a wink, asks about refreshments, and tilts back to the creaky floorboard and brass coffee-machine.

‘Sorry…’ Harry side notes, as if it's his fault she's assuming they're on a romantic date in need of a candle or two.

Louis laughs sprightly.

‘This is your doing isn’t it?’ He accuses and jolts his index finger to his chest.

Harry can act too, I’ll have you know; ‘She wasn’t supposed to come in until later,’ he shrugs, ‘after we’d snuggled up a bit, deciding if we should go home to yours or mine.’

‘Oh, we hadn’t gotten there yet. But don’t blame yourself, maybe I’m the one being slow. So where were you thinking?’

‘Mine’s the closest.’

‘OK. Yours then?’ Louis grins.

‘Mine’s,’ Harry confirms.

They're joking, of course. Louis is joking.

Except that he leans in a slight bit over the table and asks ‘are you home alone?’.

Harry stares back, lost in translation. No, transaction. Conversation?

‘Uh… Wha… Alone? Yes? Yes.’

‘No sisters?... No mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Harry, I'm joking! Look at you, so tense?’

Harry tunes back into his surroundings. All of his weigth is leaning on the chair’s two back legs - as if a giant bubble has come between him and Louis.

‘Sorry.’

Louis laughs again. ‘No worries. You just looked terrified at the thought, that’s all.’

‘No, I’m not,’ he looks down at his hot cocoa, not so hot anymore.

His lips quirk upwards in these obscene manners though, yet most of him remains hidden; the eyelashes, the eyes saucer and wide, timid almost.  _Like a painting_ , Louis muses. And now the renaissance painting has come alive to travel the seas, drag anchors and heave sails, salty sea spray all over his nose and hair.

‘Harry, have you ever heard of Caravaggio? And his portraits of St. John, when he was young?'

‘Huh?’

‘You remind me of the boy. Of St. John.’

‘I remind you of a little boy?’

‘A  _saint_ , Harry!' 

'I remind you of a little boy.'

'It’s the features, that’s all. The colours of it.’

‘I didn’t knew you liked them _that_  young.’

‘How young did you think I liked them?’ Louis shuffles his feet cutely (Harry can hear that it's cutely) beneath the table.

’27.’

’27? I’m 33. 27’s not that young.’

’25 then.’

‘It’s younger but not illegal or anything. There’s plenty of interesting 25-year olds!’

’20.’

‘That’s a bit too young, I’m afraid. Not sure if it’s my cup of tea.’

‘Where’s the golden line then?’

‘Probably somewhere around 20 and 25.’

Harry nibbles on his lower lip.

‘What’s your limit?’ He tosses back to him.

‘You know my limit,’ he says shyly, rubbing his front teeth on his bottom lip.

A burst of butterfly wings travels from his belly to his fingernails. There they hammer unnoticeably as he stirs the hot cocoa. 

‘Is it 34?’

‘No,’ Harry blushes like a 14-year old school-boy.

 _Like the painting_.

’32..?’

‘Come on, Louis,’ he gawks intently at his mug, unable to beg him to stop.

‘Show me the harbour?’ Louis says out of any context.

So, so suddenly.

‘What?’

‘The harbour where your ship will be coming in. Let’s go and get the feel of it!’

‘It’s ages away, Louis!’

‘Where to?’

‘All the way to Hampshire, that’s where.’

‘I took the car to get here,’ Louis goes on. ‘The coast is only about an hour away?’

‘It’ll be windy and cold and raining?’

‘I don’t mind. What else are we supposed to do?’

Harry finally becomes aware of how he’s been biting his lip. He lets go. ‘Fine.’

They buy a few cups of mint and chamomile tea and more hot cocoa to saviour them through the drive. Louis doesn’t know much about Harry’s taste in music - whenever they’ve hung out it’s been music they haven’t been able to choose. The pop at Harry’s birthday, the indie at the café. He likes Ray Charles, sure, but the jukebox doesn’t really give any options of songs surpassing the seventies. It appears, however, that Harry is indeed channeling a 60 year old because he opts for a radio show only playing acoustic songs with lyrics about the moon and the sea.

‘Now,  _what_  is this?’ He peaks scornfully.

‘Tupelo honeyyy…’ Harry billows at the window.

Louis lingers. ‘Don’t joke, Harry. Sing for real.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve got a deep voice. I wanna know how it sounds like when you sing.’

‘It sounds the same.’

‘It sounds the same as when you talk? You know that’s impossible? Unless you sing when you talk?’

Louis sees Harry's jaw stretch into a childlike grin from the corner of his vision.

 

*

 

There are packs of cargo’s spread about along with several teetering jimmies, a loose treadle and clashes of metal joggling against the coastal wind. The scene should make them light-trodden but there's something in the wind coming from the sea that promises forever safety.

Harry has gone out to the very end. He peers out at the violent dance and motioned suds and Louis watches him for a moment. Harry’s hair is wild and shaken - no wonder it always looks so messy; the wind crafts it. His sweater fans about, only holds grip because of clothing a firm and solid physique.

The most beautiful physique Louis has ever seen.

It's what his text-books haven’t told. What his teacher’s won’t know how to imagine. His body has laid right in front of Louis for so long - right under his nose - all until they were friends and maybe wanted more, but Louis wants more than maybe-more. What if Harry doesn’t want more than maybe-more? What if Harry only wants a single more?

As on cue, Harry turns his frame to find Louis right behind him.

He doesn’t bother shouting; the ocean cuts their voices short, would rip their words to pieces and no one would know where the letters flew to drown.

He squints at Louis, takes in all the inches of his exposed skin down to where Louis’ white wool begins - where his sharp collarbones peak like they're brave and proud and in a war. Then he points back at the car further down the docks, hinting to seek shelter because now the storm is too strong and the sea spray too sharp. Even the crab grass slams apart.

A threadbare screech escapes Louis’ lips as soon as they settle down in their seats. Compared to the chaos outside, the car is so quiet it nearly gives off a jingle. Harry’s breath is heavy, and while Louis tries catching his own, Harry can’t hold on to anything any longer.

It's just a flash of an eye when he leans over and kisses Louis. It makes him whimper right into Harry's mouth - who only kisses deeper. 

Louis relaxes back in his seat.

Harry tastes like salt and rose petals. But rose petals in the most un-cheesiest way. Not the red and pink ones, but some other colour. And not the silky classic ones but the just bloomed, the younglings, the ones anxious when dark.

He motions for Harry to bend across.

Harry’s doe-limbed legs square against the dash and the window and the seats. Hot on Louis' ear is Harry's breath, his rough tongue down his neck. Louis touches slowly up and down his hips, his waist, before squeezing his palms onto Harry's jeans to cup the cheeks who are smooth and perk with a cannon-like substance right beneath the skin.  _Burying there_ , Louis thinks feverously, and only now does he realise how  _white_  everything is; he closes his eyes and it's white. He opens them and it's white. There's no other sound in the world but Harry's noises.

 _The world is Harry's noises_.

He wiggles Harry loose of the buttons on his jeans. He only wants to touch him; he's only going to touch him, to make him feel good and feel how good that feels, himself. Harry hovers a few inches to allow Louis’ hands in. When he does, all pressure's off. Harry’s throat croaks against Louis’ chest and he curls himself in on him.

It's being free.

‘Yeah,’ he pants, trailing a beeline of kisses up Louis’ neck to his ear from where he doesn’t know what to do but he clutches tighter. It feels like, however how surreal, to float in space and find the only solid thing. And if you let go, you die. So of course, Harry can’t let go.

‘Harry…’ Louis shivers slightly, ‘Harry… Feel so good…’

Defying whatever physics a car’s interior is made of, Harry's knees bury fully on the buckles, and he nods in the crook of Louis' neck, like a  _yes_ , like a  _please_ , like a  _hurry hurry_.

Louis doesn't think twice of it, and begins pumping him more impatiently. Every stroke makes him feel how firm Harry is and he doesn't want to stop feeling it. Ever. Harry jiggles and Louis strokes the small of his back, squeezes his thighs, anything to calm him - mouths sweet nothings into whirlwind hair; the texture of its hard spirals brushes his nose and he gets high off the scent.

It's salt, too, and light, and ft it would be a colour, it would be aquamarine.

Harry's eyes lock with his, and now kissing Louis once more. It feels as if it isn't really happening, that it isn't real. Face on face, lips on lips, thick globules of pre-cum making his hand sticky.

Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's a dream?

Harry goads his own hand into Louis’ briefs, and a twitch seizes Louis’ body, his head falling soft beside the pillow neck. It feels like being at a place where it's right, with someone right, at a right time to be alive for, in the right bodies, the right minds; and everything else afterwards won’t be as whole.  _Maybe that’s why people don’t love_ , Louis’ thinks bewildered,  _because the high is so high but the low is so low._

Harry's arms clam around Louis’ neck, rocking back and forth, his entire body aiming at that movement like Louis’ hand is heaven-sent.

Like Louis is.

He tugs and palms at Louis’ cock - and in surprise of himself, Louis can already feel the stirring build-up of a coming.

‘Yeah, yeah…’ Harry chants with closed eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Louis gulps, as if repeating a language for repetitions’ sake without really understanding the words.

Harry’s stomach contracts and a few beats later he comes in uncontrollable jerks, the length and width and cum fills Louis’ entire hand while he sways back and forth sleepily, eyes still closed, palm still pressing Louis – who can’t speak full sentences anymore;

‘Right the… Yeah…’

Louis' only focus is fucking into Harry’s hands, his cock stretching for Harry's torso, the shadowed chest - like some desperate plant for sun. Fire for air. Or just Louis to Harry.

 _And his arms, god, his arms_.

The worn ship-tattoo, the muscles shifting and living a life of their own beneath that fucking beautiful skin - those perfectly sized arms, those sexy,  _sexy_  arms. He's never seen anything like it. It's so broad and lean. Most of all it's out of place. It's out of place anywhere they go, even in this car. It's a rarity, is what it is. And most people don’t understand how they'll never see anything like this. At the supermarket where Harry shops, in the queue for a coffee, on a jog, on the couch watching New Girl - they don't know. They don't see. 

 _There are other paintings of you,_  he wants to scream, _you have to see it, Patrocles... Louis David, you have to see it_.

Then there's a blank, and he comes with four final thrusts, closing in the male man, the beautiful boy in front of him into complete… what is it… a surrender perhaps?

And where to now? What to do know? How will life be now?

The orgasm doesn't wear off; it spirals into many new things, many new thoughts, new insecurities and many, many more desperations.

Bit by bit, they unlink.

Louis recollects the car keys and Harry heaves heavily before settling into the passenger seat, going through the CD’s in the glove compartment. The drive home is calm despite the storm. Louis speeds and Harry smiles out the window, carding his mane.  

And it turns out Harry actually is home alone.

 

*

 

‘Never really looked at your room properly,’ Louis strodes - inspecting a The Universe-heavyweight. ‘Do you read?’

‘Sometimes,’ Harry leans by the door, his left hand circles his right wrist. His feet shuffle a bit before he decides for the window. ‘I like storms,’ he says, breath steaming the glass.

He feels Louis’ hands wrap around his hips. ‘Me too.’

The goose bumps spread like wildfire on his hunched stature. He is so afraid.

Louis kisses his earlobe and remains there. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘You too,’ Harry sobs vaguely, wilting the even sounds in his throat. He turns to Louis, to kiss.

‘You alright?’ Louis asks, voice curious on Harry’s skin.

‘Yeah. I’m just… Nervous, I don’t know,’ he blushes.

‘You don’t have to be,’ he tilts his head, peering at him, ‘did we go too fast, you think? We don’t have to do anything unless you want to.’

Louis freezes for a moment. What if Harry has been absolutely repulsed all along?

‘No, no, Louis. It wasn’t too fast,’ he attaches his pinky in Louis’ right hand. ‘Couldn’t you tell I wanted you?’ he says lowly, and gives his kiss.

‘I could,’ Louis smiles, ‘could you tell _I_ wanted to?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry laughs sweetly.

Louis wants to say a lot of things, explain why he is _wanting_ so much, but all of the formulations sit forlorn in his throat. Harry pecks him a kiss again, then again and again until Louis laughs into his mouth and does a taste of the sides of Harry’s tongue. Harry wraps into his arms, embarrassed at how fast his chest rises up and down when they’ve barely even kissed.

Louis kisses alongside his throat, not mentioning Harry’s rabbit heart - or the choked sounds coming out his nose.

Still in the hugging position, he guides them to the bed frame to sit. He releases the hold a bit, lets go of the kiss.

‘This is very nice, Harry. I like this.’

‘Me too.’

They kiss some more.

‘I’ve jacked off thinking of you so many times,’ Harry says. It's not alluring.

He only seems timid, waiting nervously for a response. Louis, contrary to popular belief, expresses himself physically. It's in the barely-there twitch of his lips, his hand gestures, his stance, how high or low he holds his chin during conversations, the dynamic of his bones, the shift of tinge in his eyes. But it's rarely in his words. His words are a mass of thoughts and spur of the moment-hunches that doesn’t know any other release but his mouth.

The wonder comes from the fact that Louis feels a lot more than he thinks.

He is layered in emotions like the fields where ocean meet earth, and at the centre is his very own inferno. Even the hostile areas of inhabited ice are based on that inner heat; wouldn’t have existed without it. He sucks in the skin on Harry’s neck and lays him down in bed to get as much pressure on his neck as possible, he wants to taste the pulse Harry has, check the intervals of his heartbeats because he's never been this close to a fire like his own.

Truth be told, he's not even sure it's real.

He has to,  _has to_ , have him for himself, for all the selfish, possessive, unattractive reasons in the world. Maybe it gets more real the more he touches, so he can detach from the alien notion of blending bodies with someone already in you. Like it has happened before in a distant time. That Louis knows the skin of Harry like his own. And when they kiss, they don’t really kiss, they only meet with everything they already know, and everything they’ll ever need to feel. It's held somewhere… somewhere Louis can’t grasp where is.

Any motion and word and thought Harry has ever had has left a dent in Louis’ mind, forever impressed.

‘Fuck, Louis,’ Harry shrinks beneath him, voice fry.

He grabs Louis tight to force him closer, a silly quest really, a useless game with repetitive results. No one can win or lose - the only goal is the frolic. Louis kisses every surface on his face in a rush manner, there's probably nothing sexy about it – though Harry seems to think so, thrusting his cock against Louis’ hips like there's no tomorrow.

Louis’ tufts of hair cover Harry’s disarray and as they kiss it's a meet of arched and soft eyebrows, so blatantly united you could cry. Louis traces Harry's goose bumps with his mouth to calm them but new ones swell in the trails he leave behind.

‘Harry?’ he comes up to his lips again. ‘All alright?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what it is…’ His hands circle Louis’ stomach. ‘You’re so good,’ he breaths, eyes closed, ‘this is good.’

‘Baby,’ Louis envelops him, keeps tasting – because like said; Harry has to be all his.

‘I want this,’ Harry tugs on Louis’ jeans.

‘Yeah, I want this,’ Louis pants, ‘do you have a condom.’ He can’t even tone out a question.

‘The drawer by the window.’

Louis springs over and delves his somewhat jittery hands in its contents. Not before standing that close to the window, does he notice the sounds from outside. The rain slushes the streets below, skirmishing the mailboxes. As he looks back at Harry, a hollow crashes upon him. He feels like something is trying to erase everything and this is Louis’ biggest fear. Finding something so perfect, having a heart knit into his own, for then to lose.

There hasn’t ever been an Eleanor. He just hasn’t managed to be open about the way things were. He can’t possibly be close to anyone.

How does that even work? He's done everything not to feel all those exhausting currents he consist of - his mind always in the skies. Which is why he never trembled. Which is why he never lost. And now he can barely stand on his own two feet in front of a 22-year old man who’s giving his all while Louis has tip toed around any hint of sincerity, any hint of genuine feelings.

‘Louis?’ Harry's sitting on the bed, a concern in the layers of his voice, of that one single word.

‘Sorry, I… I just fell out of it for a moment.’

Harry pauses. It's uncanny how his expression seems to read Louis’ thoughts. Just to be sure, Louis rewinds a bit to make certain he didn’t actually said it out loud.

‘I want you, you know.’

Sadness lays trapped in Harry’s words. Louis doesn’t know what for.

‘I want you too.’

‘So this is what we want?’

‘This is what we want.’

Harry leans slightly backwards and gives a pat on the covers. ‘Then come?’

He goes to sit next to him, and from then on, neither of them speaks. Harry's noticed the rain too, how loud it whacks the windowpanes. He kisses Louis, grabs his arms and circles his thumbs on Louis' silky palms. And there's a fire. In the rain, by the drawer. On the sheets. It burns on them too, burns them up, so to speak. Fries away the shivers.  _Do you recognize this_ , Louis thinks, and digs hard between Harry’s fingers. He responds by opening up his mouth more, and spreads his legs to give Louis’ body access to his hips and thighs and whatever the hell he wants of him.

 

 _I give you all_.

 

Louis feels his eyes prickle - there are echoes in the room off the breaths they breathe,

Harry's beautiful in it.

 

 _You give me all_.

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> First story ever written an AO3!! Oh the excitement!! I welcome criticism - by all means, just spill out your guts; what made you not read through it, what made you like it, which sentence ruined it all, etc... 
> 
> this is un-betaed (obviously)
> 
> :)
> 
> Update: did a bit of more work and there shouldn't be any grammar mistakes now. A personal apology to everyone who had to endure reading the previous version.
> 
> Update II: so I'm going through it again and there's definitely mistakes here and there. Update #1 is officially a complete lie. To be continued.


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